


time and too much

by brightblue



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, and lots of fluff, but also some magic brownies, quarantine together, shelter in place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightblue/pseuds/brightblue
Summary: Claire's getting a little stir crazy at home. Brad needs to drop off some stuff. Claire's not sure of much right now, but she knows she really wants him to stay.(Basically, what if Claire and Brad sheltered in place together? Let's get through this together with a little creative fluff, friends.)
Relationships: Brad Leone & Claire Saffitz, Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 9
Kudos: 79





	time and too much

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is my first RPF. These are the first people who have ever compelled me to write RPF. That said, I acknowledge Brad and Claire are real people with real lives. These are Fake Characters From My Imagination. Please do not confuse the two. Please do not share this with any of the people involved (yes, this includes Felix the Cat.) Please respect the rules of RPF! Thank you kindly.
> 
> Trigger Warnings:  
First things first, this is is clearly about the COVID-19 outbreak. We're all going through it. I'm hoping that during this time of utter stress and uncertainty and crisis that this little story can give you a few minutes of escape. Like everyone else, I have family and friends on the front lines or adversely impacted and it sucks beyond belief. Please take care of yourself. Take care of your people. Stay inside, do the right thing, and help wherever you can. Most of all, stay safe and stay well. 
> 
> Second trigger warning. There is minor drug use (the ol' Mary Jane) herein. If that bothers you, please pass. Thanks!

_I know I could be spending a little too much time with you_  
_But time and too much don't belong together like we do_  
_If I had all my yesterdays I'd give 'em to you too_  
_I belong to you now_  
_I belong to you_

Brandi Carlile, "I Belong to You"

Claire knows the thought is selfish and irrational; she would certainly  _ never _ give voice to it. But she can’t help it: this whole pandemic would’ve been a lot more tolerable six months ago, when she had to force herself to step away from her kitchen and out into the world, when she was up to her sore shoulders in flour and sugar in the thick of recipe testing. Or maybe even a few weeks after that, when she would agonize for hours over the wording in an anecdote or second, third, and fourth guess the exact proportions in a recipe. But now her manuscript is in the hands of her editor, the photos have all been taken, and there’s really not much to do but wait.

Claire has never been good at waiting.

So now she can’t go anywhere and, cookie selling prowess aside, Claire is nothing if not a good little scout and knows that even if she is literally clawing up the walls of her apartment, that’s no excuse to break protocol. She can do this. She can creatively solve this problem. There’s plenty in her tiny Manhattan apartment to keep her brain busy. 

By the first afternoon, she scrubs every surface of her kitchen, cleans out the fridge, reorganizes her pantry, and spends a solid hour addressing her spice drawer. When she runs out of label tape, the amount that she grumbles and groans to her cat is, in retrospect, perhaps a sign that she needs a break. 

She laces up her running shoes and heads out. She warns Felix not to disturb her pristine kitchen, pops in her air buds, and goes. 

An hour later, after knocking off a few miles and stretching out in the park, she approaches her apartment at an easy stroll. Sufficiently buzzed on endorphins and fresh air, she’s a little lost in her own world and so she definitely does a double take to register it: a very tall, familiar man chatting up her doorman, arms and hands gesticulating wildly, a pile of boxes at his feet. His laughter explodes into the air, bright and sparkling, incongruent with the city’s concrete seriousness. Claire comes to a dead stop.

“ _ Brad _ ?!”

* * *

“Claire. It’s a pandemic. You gotta pick up the phone!”

Claire huffs a breath out as she adjusts the very heavy box in her arms. “I was on a run. I have my phone on  _ do not disturb _ so I can escape for a bit. Aren’t you always telling me I need to unplug?”

“Yeah… but it’s a  _ pandemic _ ! End of times, crazy shit!” Brad’s double stack of boxes clings and clangs dangerously as he moves his body in some sudden way. She can hear in his voice that he wants to throw an arm out or bang a countertop or something to punctuate his point. Her mind is spinning right now, squinting almost. Suddenly having Brad in her world like this is unexpected, blinding, like stepping out into the bright sunshine after days spent indoors. Here he is in her elevator, taking up all the oxygen, all the space, with his big hands and boundless energy and all these boxes. It’s disorienting. 

It takes her a second to register that he hasn’t stopped talking. 

“But I gotta chance to check up on ol’ buddy Marco there and sounds like he’s doing great. Said you’ve been doing the right thing, stayin’ inside—

“Brad, you’ve met my doorman like one other time,” she can’t help but interject with a laugh. Brad Leone, perpetual friend to the world. The elevator dings at her floor and they begin the task of transferring the half dozen boxes out into the hallway. “What do you even have in here?”

“I told ya, Claire, some essentials.” Brad slides a box down the hallway with his foot, still managing the two heavy boxes in his arms with little effort. Claire does not take note of the way his pants cling to his ass as he bends down to create a tidy stack in front of her apartment door. “Figured since today was the last day to get into the office, I’d better bring back what I need. I’m in the middle of three different projects and since this could go on, like, forever, I didn’t want to let these babies go too long unattended. Imagine the mess. The smells! Ooh, boy.” 

“Ew, gross, Brad.” Claire unlocks her door and steps inside. Before she lets Brad in, she casts an apologetic look at her space, wondering where on earth Brad’s science experiments will go. “And you had to bring all this to my place?”

“Claire, I couldn’t exactly manage this all on the ferry back home! ‘Sides, there are some delicate situations happening in here. Not really ideal for water travel.” 

And just like that, boxes are being stacked in the corner of her living room next to a towering pile of cookbooks she’s been using as research while writing. Brad is muttering to himself, familiar noises and sounds that fill her carefully neutral space with color, as he begins to unload.

Claire lets out a deep sigh.

He freezes. “Aw, jeez. I can take this all somewhere else! You maybe coulda said something before we hauled it all up here, though!”

“No, no, it’s  _ fine _ .” Claire bites her lip. She feels her stress levels ebb when she decides to concentrate on the play of muscles underneath Brad’s worn t-shirt as he moves about. Besides where would he go? Most of their other coworkers live in Brooklyn. And it’s just stuff.  _ Brad’ _ s stuff. Maybe it’ll be like having a piece of the test kitchen at home. “But don’t get mad at me if I screw something up.”

Brad pauses and focuses those impossibly blue eyes on her. “Like I could ever be mad at you, Claire.”

She feels a flush from head to toe; she tries to tell herself it’s just her body cooling down from the run. It’s then she remembers what she must look like. She touches a self-conscious hand to her head. When did she even wash her hair last? Well. Not much to be done about it now. Brad’s eyes flick over her then dart away.

“Hey, uh, open that box over by the door, will ya?” Brad moves the same glass jar in and out of a box multiple times.

Claire does as she’s asked, lifting the lid of a copy box and peering inside. “Oh my god, Brad! The  _ dehydrator _ ?!?” 

Brad’s ears and neck tinge pink. He adjusts his backwards hat. “Had to sneak her out. Ya know. Just in case you have to gourmet up something. Maybe make those fancy Pop-Tarts again.”

“I am never making those again,” Claire says firmly, freeing the dehydrator from the confines of the box. She has no intention of actually using the appliance but it warms her from deep inside to think that Brad brought it home for her. She gives it a place of honor on the small dining table in her living space. She rearranges a few candles, a succulent, and a bowl of lemons to perch on top of it, taking a minute to make sure everything is just so. “There. Lovely.” 

Brad beams up at her. “We’ll turn this place into a work from home test kitchen yet, Half-Sour! That’s the spirit!”

* * *

With great hesitation, she leaves Brad unsupervised in her apartment to go take a quick shower. She tries not to think about him puttering around her space, touching her things, making judgments about her life. No, scratch that, Brad doesn’t make judgements like that. But he  _ does _ weirdly see her in ways she’s not always comfortable with… because if he can know when she’s reached her emotional breaking point or when she just needs a compliment or even when she’s just plain tired then, well, surely he has to know how she feels for him. 

It’s embarrassing and cliche, she realizes. Like all those jokes about people thinking their baristas are flirting with them. Brad is  _ that guy _ . He cares. About everyone. He is sensitive and kind and always wants to help. Just because he turns that attention on her from time to time doesn’t mean he has any feelings for her. They’ve been told over and over they have great on-camera chemistry together and she agrees. When she’s bantering with Brad, she’s not worried about what she says or what she looks like. She relaxes. She laughs. Off-camera, too, she knows they gravitate toward one another in the test kitchen. They’re friends. Great friends. But Brad is friends with everyone. 

Sometimes she thinks what they have is maybe  _ special _ . That maybe there could be more. When he looks at her so clearly, so intently, that her heart skips a beat, she can’t help but believe she isn’t the only one who wants something more than friendship. But then he is dancing Gaby around the kitchen or fawning over Andy’s latest creation and it’s maybe not so special after all. Brad is the best. Everyone thinks so. But she had to go and fall in love with him. She's always been an over-achiever. 

Claire lets out a groan as she flips off the shower. She tells herself that all the extra grooming and primping is just because she needs the self-care moment or that maybe it is a good idea to give Brad space to set up his stuff without her critical supervision. Whatever. She is not going to feel bad about slathering on her good lotion during this time of national crisis. It smells comforting, that’s all.

Once Claire is back in her comfy clothes (she refuses to label them as pajamas this early in the evening), wet hair twisted into a loose braid, she joins Brad in the living room. It takes him a moment to register her return and when his eyes catch on her, when he looks her up and down in a very deliberate way, she tries to remind herself she’s reading into it too much.  _ Right _ ? Right.

She clears her throat. “All set up?”

Brad gives his head a shake and then turns back to what’s now his corner of her living room with a “ta-da!” 

Claire can’t help but wrinkle her nose at the controlled chaos— jars of rotting things, open boxes rigged up like a shelf and bursting with plastic containers, and is that an animal skull? “Ohhh-kay. Great. Tell me what I need to do with all of this.”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, Claire.” Brad smiles and wags a finger at her. He’s being his loud, camera-ready self. She’s seen the cold, hard evidence that this never fails to make her a little starry-eyed. Still, she can’t help herself. She grins back. “We’ll just use the ol’ FaceTime and I can walk you through it. Maybe just a little burping here and there. A few shaky-shakes.”

Claire can visualize Hunzi’s graphics popping up in the air around him. She laughs. “Okay, Brad, no problem. But if anything explodes, it’s all going straight into the incinerator.”

“Hmm. That might not be the best idea for Project #2 over here.”

“What?!  _ Brad _ !”

“I owe ya one, Claire. Truly.” He winks at her and Claire has to walk away, not trusting the next words out of her mouth. 

Brad continues to tinker around as she steps into her galley kitchen. She takes a deep breath. The loneliness of the kitchen is overwhelming even though she can hear him just a few feet away. Claire bites her lip. Well, what’s the worst that could happen?

“Hey, Brad?” 

“Yeah, bud,” he calls back to her. She rolls her eyes at the  _ bud  _ he throws at her. Of course.

“I was going to make ravioli for dinner, use up some of my leftover cheeses and herbs. You want in?” She stands still staring at her refrigerator, waiting for his response in the long pause that follows.

Then just when she’s about to retract the offer, because clearly he doesn’t need to think about it that long, it’s  _ Brad _ for goodness sake, he pops his head into the kitchen. His sudden appearance is startling, but in a warm and gooey way.

“You better believe I do, Claire!” His smile is all teeth and lightness. He claps his hands as he heads over to the sink to wash up. “Let’s get that hand crank fired up!” When he makes a cranking motion with his hand, water droplets fly everywhere.

“Oh, Brad,” she mutters, trying for annoyance but landing somewhere closer to affection. She begins pulling ingredients out onto the counter. 

* * *

A few hours later, they are lounging, full and sated, on Claire’s couch, a crappy reality show streaming on the TV. 

“I gotta tell ya, Claire. I don’t know how you of all people can watch this shit.” 

She bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I dunno… I always imagined you winding down with some straight up PBS opera crap. Maybe, if you’re feeling crazy, some old school Julia Child.” His eyes twinkle at her, a dead give away that he’s purposely goading her.

She just chucks a throw pillow at his face and is pleased with his outraged reaction. “Don’t even come for Julia Child. She’s an icon!”

“Oh now she’s  _ feisty _ !” He laughs and bats the pillow away. “Better be careful. Wouldn’t want to spill wine on this nice rug of yours. And don’t think I didn’t notice how your bookshelves are organized by category and then alphabetized. You’re a menace, Saffitz. A rebel without a cause!”

“Brad.” She’s giggling into her wine glass now and telling herself it’s the second glass of chianti that’s making her feel all glow-y and not the company, not his ridiculously oversized reactions to the drama unfolding on her screen. “Don’t act like you’re above this show. You’re totally invested. You asked me to play another episode! This is escapism at its best.” 

“That’s how they reel ya in, Claire! And just like that, pow, I’m an addict!” Brad tosses his cap on the coffee table and rakes a hand through his impossibly messy hair. “My brain turnin’ to mush.”

“Oh please. This coming from the man who quotes crappy action movies regularly.”

Brad chuckles. “That shit is high art, Saffitz. High. Art.” Brad guffaws and slaps his knee. It’s so dumb and so  _ Brad _ that Claire can’t help but laugh. “ _ High _ art, get it?”

“I think Felix got that one,” she shakes her head, scratching between the ears of the cat lounging in her lap.

“Nah, little buddy there is living his best life,” Brad says, tipping his chin in her direction. He’s calmer now, serious. “Look at that furrball. Not a care in the world. Best seat in the house.”

“ _ Brad _ .” She scrunches up her nose to better hide the blossom of heat in her cheeks, focusing her attention on Felix. She can feel the weight of Brad’s gaze on her. 

“This has been a good night, Claire.” The words are quiet, soft, and offered up with a sheepish grin. 

“It has,” she agrees. “I’m glad you’re here. I was going a little nuts…”

“Oh really?” His laugh is full-bodied, his head tilting back. “Didn’t quite get that vibe.”

“Watch it or I’ll sabotage your projects.”

“You wouldn’t dare! See if I rig up a pasta extruder for you again!”

They both laugh, but it’s forced. In the familiar banter of the conversation, it seems they both know what’s coming next. They fall into a silence that isn’t exactly comfortable. Brad keeps fussing with his hat. Claire concentrates on grooming the winter fur that Felix has begun to shed. 

Claire finds her mind turning to the inevitable— Brad will leave and then it will be just her and the quiet and her mind spinning and worrying. Just her and Felix and looming panic, indefinitely.

Claire takes a deep breath. She hates to wallow. It’s so unproductive. “What do you think you’ll do when you get home?”

“I dunno. Probably drink some more wine, smoke a little, end up getting all nostalgic and shit.”

“That sounds depressing.” And so, so  _ Brad _ that it hurts.

“Yeah. Claire. Shit’s about to get real dark.” He takes his last swig of wine and turns his attention to her. “And what does ol’ Half-Sour do to pass the time?”

Claire snorts and the anxiety pulses hard and real in her chest. “I don’t know! I feel like I’ve been holed up here forever working on my book. There’s not much left to do.” Not much except to perseverate and panic and bake questionable amounts of carbohydrates.

“I did see the post where you organized the spice cabinet. I’m worried about ya, Claire!” It’s apparent that it’s a joke, mostly. But the way his eyes soften as he says her name melt Claire just a little bit. She traces the stem of her wine glass with her thumb and stares at the tartrates that swirl in last dredges of chianti. 

“It’s not going to be easy, that’s for sure. But we’ll survive. Hopefully.” She shrugs. A wave of emotion crashes over her, something heavy and dark that sweeps away all the warmth of dinner made with a good friend. She places her glass gently on her coffee table. Brad’s gaze lingers over her, questions unasked in the air between them. “When’s the last ferry tonight?”

“Ah fuck.” Brad tears his gaze from her to glance at his watch. “Soon. I gotta go if I’m gonna make it.” But he doesn’t stand up. And Claire takes in his presence again, how that even quiet Brad still radiates an energy that’s so positive and soothing to her. He’s the jar two-thirds full guy, forever and always, and she’s the one who may as well have a doomsday clock on her wall. 

“Or… or you could stay?”

She imagines that the words hang in the air between them, like something Hunzi edited in. Except not funny. Heavy and serious and possibly life-changing. She holds her gaze steady with his. Shows him that she means it, that it’s not a totally flippant remark. 

When Brad finally responds, his voice is a little rough. “Stay here?”

She rushes to explain. “I mean, you don't have to, of course, just that I wouldn’t want you to get all the way back downtown and miss the ferry. This couch pulls out and the bed is pretty comfy— I usually sleep here when my parents come to visit.” 

For a moment, Brad is all nervous energy. Rising to a stand, patting at his pockets, sitting abruptly, glancing at his watch— he’s clearly frantic and uncertain and that gives Claire the confidence she needs to look up at him with her best pleading gaze. She knows he can’t resist it. She really wants him to stay.

He looks at her and seems to melt back into his skin, calm and steady as their eyes meet. “Yeah, okay, Claire. I did grab the overnight bag that I left at the office, got a clean change of clothes in there and everything, I think. Yeah, that will work. If you're sure.”

She's sure.

“Okay. Okay, good.” It’s a bit breathless. They stare at each other for a long moment, possibilities expanding in the air between them. Claire clears her throat. “I’ll go open another bottle of wine then.”

* * *

“Oh, gosh, Brad if I hadn’t already run out of label tape…” Claire picks up yet another random jar out of the last of Brad’s boxes. Apparently a collection of ingredients he cannot live without and yet they are labeled with the most cursory of chicken scratch that Brad himself can barely decipher. 

“I think this is… furikake?” 

Claire grabs the jar from Brad, ignoring his protest, and inspects the black Sharpie chicken scratch on green tape. “I guess… if that really is a K?”

“Well, what the hell else would it be?”

Claire just laughs and tips back more wine into her mouth. She grabs a half pint container out of the box and notices it’s still a little chilled. It’s labeled with only BRAD’S TOP SECRET DO NOT INGEST in hackneyed letters. It’s some sort of fatty substance that’s the color of snot. 

“Gross, Brad, what is this?”

“ _ Ohhhhhh _ ….”

“Yes?”

“Oh,  _ Claire _ ! Just what we need!”

Claire gives him a look. “Congealed boogers?”

“Nu-uh. This, my friend, is cannabutter.” The crooked smile and twinkle in his eyes disarm Claire for a moment. She catches on them and, maybe it’s the wine, but she doesn’t think clearly for the longest second.

“Cannabutter?” She mentally flips through her brain’s encyclopedia of ingredients and comes up short. Then, off Brad’s anticipatory smirk, it clicks. “ _ Brad _ ! Oh my god! Cannabis butter?!”

“Yeah, bub! Ol’ Vinny and I whipped some up in the test kitchen one night. Filmed a whole bootleg edition of  _ It’s Alive _ and everything.” Brad snatches the container out of her stunned hand and gives it a twirl. “That one never made it out. The suits upstairs weren’t so sure about it.”

“Oh, I’ll bet,” Claire laughs. “And it’s just been sitting in the freezer since then? Like in the test kitchen? Where we  _ work _ ?” 

Brad levels her with a serious look. “Claire. You really think this is the only illegal substance in our office right now?”

Palming her forehead, Claire giggles. Only Brad can make her feel like such a prude but also make her feel not so bad about it. “I don’t know! I’ve never thought about it!”

Brad whoops with delight at her embarrassment. “Half-Sour, you are such a square.”

“I’m _not_!” Her protest is weak at best. And it may be true. Maybe she doesn’t have a secret cache of drugs in her cubby (people do, really? Who? And what? And also,  _ why _ ?) but she’s never been able to resist a challenge and there’s a distinct challenge in Brad’s blue eyes. He gives the half-pint another toss in his hands. She appraises it. Thinks. “Is it still good?”

“Why, Claire? You gonna whip us up some special brownies?” He waggles his eyebrows a bit and what she loves about him is that she knows she can back down right now and he wouldn’t think any less of her, wouldn’t think her lame or boring. But here’s the thing: she’s not lame or boring, and while she doesn’t partake as often as her current companion (or, apparently, their coworkers for that matter), she’s had  _ experiences _ . It’s just...been awhile.

Claire grabs the half-pint from his hand and stalks off toward the kitchen, leaving a flummoxed Brad in her wake. “These are going to be the best damn brownies you’ve ever tasted. Fucking magical brownies.”

“That’s my girl!” Brad smacks the floor where he sits and lets out a little whistle. Claire’s cheeks burn from both smiling and blushing. “Let’s do this! _Gourmet Makes_ Magic Brownies! Where’s Kev with the camera when you need him?”

* * *

“Those were really fucking delicious.” It goes without saying. Because she’s said it like five times already. Claire licks her lips as she watches Brad take the last bite of his brownie. In what is a frustratingly more responsible move, he has taken his time with his treat. Claire ate hers in just a few quick bites. It was just so good.

“Totally nailed it, Claire,” Brad agrees. He’s switched to beer and washes down his bite with a swig. “Good call on that dark chocolate ganache. Really made it next level. And with that hint of sea salt? Yeah, buddy!”

“Thanks, Brad.” Her heart never fails to go fluttery in her chest when Brad gives her a compliment. She grins up at him and, not for the first time in the past twenty minutes, finds herself far more focused on Brad’s movements than on the random movie they’d put on. She likes the way his hair curls out from under his cap so perfectly. It looks so soft. And the scruff on his cheeks is so soft looking too, a little more grown out than usual but not quite yet a full beard. He’ll look good with a beard. Though she’ll miss the familiar line of his jaw. She wonders how that scruff would feel under her hand, or  _ oooh _ , against her thighs… She’s never had a man with a beard go down on her. Claire giggles then hiccups. Then giggles some more.

Brad catches her gaze and frowns. “Okay there, Half-Sour? Maybe I shouldn’t have let you eat that whole brownie…and so quickly...”

She pouts at him. _Buzzkill_. She chuckles at her own joke. “Nah, this is good. I needed this.” 

Waving a hand at nothing, she lets her head fall back on the couch and smiles over at Brad. She did need this. She feels great. Happy and floaty. Every worry she’s had swirling in her head barely a shadow of a memory now. Nothing that she can touch at least. _Touch_. Her gaze falls down to Brad’s hands, the right one that rests on his thigh more specifically. So big and strong..._and capable_… The things he can do with those hands. She idly wonders what he would do if she placed her hand over his. Just to see.

“Yeah, ya did.” Brad smiles softly at her and it feels like a warm, fuzzy blanket against her skin. 

“Mmm....” She follows the elegant lines of his fingers up to his wrist, his forearm. Oh, his arms. She can linger there for a while. She lets out a fluttery sigh.

Then erupts into giddy giggles when Brad shifts awkwardly in his seat. His eyes wide.

“Uh, Claire?”

“Yes.  _ Bradley _ .” Surely, she doesn’t give him a flirty look when he studies her, a half-amused, half-concerned expression on his face, because Claire doesn’t do flirty looks. But he’s so handsome. And here. With her.

“Oh Jesus, oh Saffitz. Now we are _ in it _ !” His chuckle washes over her, warm and strong like whiskey. He scrubs a hand over his face and shakes his head in delight. She feels nothing but good right now. And sleepy and light and… god, wouldn’t Brad just make the  _ best _ pillow? 

_Whoops_. Maybe she says that out loud. Because he’s looking at her in surprise, blushing and bashful. She’s with it enough to know that, seeing a video of her own face right now (god forbid), she would probably have no choice but to describe it as moony. The little heart-eyed emoji. But she’s out of it enough to have no control over it. So it just is. 

“Aw, babe, like I could ever say no to you.”

Babe. He’s called her that before. In the test kitchen. At work. In front of cameras. He’s also called Vinnie and Hunzi and the FreshDirect delivery guy babe… so it shouldn’t matter.

But then he’s opening his arm to her and his eyes are so  _ soft _ and he’s so warm. It’s too easy to curl up against his side, to lay her head on his chest and feel his heart pounding fast and strong under her ear. She sighs, content, when he pulls her closer and holds her tight. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Brad,” she murmurs into his chest as she feels herself begin to drift, floating on a cloud. “Everything's better when you’re around.”

“Back atcha, Half-Sour.” And maybe it’s just her imagination, the magic brownies playing tricks on her, but she would swear he kisses her on her head. “Right back atcha.”

* * *

Claire’s in a blissful half-asleep state where she registers the warmth of Brad’s arm around her, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest under her head, and the quiet bangs and explosions of the movie in the background but is still utterly relaxed and drifting. She’s not sure how long it’s quiet for, the movie apparently over, before Brad is gently shaking her awake.

“C’mon, Claire, let’s get you into bed.” Brad’s voice is a whisper of a breath across her ear and she sighs deeply in response.

“Mmm, ‘sokay. I can sleep here.” She curls her fingers into his shirt and burrows more deeply into his embrace.

She feels the answering chuckle reverberate through his chest. “Yeah. I bet. But I gotta piss so…”

“Ugh, Brad,” she grumbles and pushes herself off of him, spell shattered. She smacks his arm as she sits up. She yawns. 

“Everybody pees, Claire.” He waggles a finger at her as she blinks and stretches, ignoring him. She’s suddenly chilled as he leaves her and heads to the bathroom. She listens to the vague sounds of the door closing, the pipes running, and him puttering around the apartment cleaning up their dessert mess. Somewhere in the midst of that, she allows herself to snuggle back into the throw pillow that smells kind of like him now and then she is drifting off again.

“Alrighty, Half-Sour, here we go. Uno, dos, tres.” 

“Huh?” She’s awake again, and then really awake, because Brad’s arms are sliding under her, scooping and lifting. “What?  _ Brad _ !” 

He gives an exaggerated groan as he stands, cradling her in his arms. She’s very close to his face and suddenly wide awake. He’s grinning down at her. Reflexively, she grabs him around the neck. His cheeks are flushed and he’s pretending to huff and puff as he walks her to her bedroom but his arms are strong and sturdy beneath her. 

“Don’t worry. I gotcha.” Then Felix is meowing at Brad’s feet, winding through his legs, and he trips a little bit. She barely feels it but he squeezes her closer and she has no choice but to rest her head on his shoulder. “Felix, work with me here, bud," he scolds the cat and they both laugh. 

_ Stay _ , she wants to say.  _ Come to bed with me _ . But even in her fuzzy mind she knows that is off-limits. Though she can’t quite remember why. 

“Gosh, Claire, you weigh like—-

“Don’t,” she warns and adds a bite of her nails to his neck for emphasis. A shiver rips through Brad’s body and she tells herself that it’s from the exertion of carrying her.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head. “I was going to say  _ nothing _ .” And then he dumps her on her bed from his full height. She shrieks. “Geez, woman.”

Claire grumbles at him and pulls herself toward her pillows in a decidedly ungraceful manner. Brad just watches her. Doesn’t leave. Throwing her covers back, Claire eases herself under the covers, taking an exaggerated second to get comfortable. She meets Brad’s gaze. Her breath catches. It’s hungry.  _ Wanting _ .

Feeling suddenly dizzy, Claire sucks in a breath. Later, she’ll wonder if her brain totally went offline, maybe sparked out with the wine and the weed and the sudden dark intensity in Brad’s eyes, but without thinking, she says, “stay with me?” (She’s not really asking. With him, she never has to ask.)

He swallows hard. She bites her lip. 

“Alright, Claire.”

She knew it.

* * *

Awareness comes slowly and in waves of sensation— rested, comfortable, warm, sunlight..._furry_?

Claire nearly sneezes when she lifts her head only to encounter Felix’s slight body, curled under her chin on an inhale. 

“Felix,” she groans and tries to gently move the cat but he digs his claws into her t-shirt in protest. “Ugh, fine.” She lets him be though her neck and chest feel sweaty under his body. The rest of her feels warm, too, but in a much more pleasant way.

_Brad_.

She smiles into Felix’s little body when she realizes it and gives him a light scratch. Brad shifts in his sleep from where he’s wrapped up behind her. His arm is heavy and secure over her waist. She can hear his breath, not quite a snore but definitely not quiet, in a slow and steady rhythm, feel the little puffs of warm air on the sensitive skin of her neck. It wakes her body up in the most delicious way. She could get used to this. Brad the big spoon to her little. Felix, the little teaspoon. She bites back a giggle at her own joke. 

Brad groans in his sleep at that and tugs her closer, nuzzling his nose into her back. “Mmm… Claire…” His hand squeezes at her hip.

Claire can't help the gasp at the shock of arousal that strikes her. She involuntarily rocks back into him. Holds her breath. 

But Felix is startled at the movement and suddenly launches away, his back claws gripping into her neck for purchase. 

“Ahh, ouch,  _ fuck _ !” Claire yelps, hand rushing to her neck. She recoils from Felix’s jump by rolling away from the cat, who’s gone in a dark flash, and right into Brad’s chest.

“Shit! The hell?!” Brad is awake instantly, bolting up, but utterly confused. He blinks down at her. “ _ Claire _ !?”

“Yeah,  _ ow _ , my neck, dammit…” She hisses through a giggle at Brad’s disheveled curls and wild eyes; an arm swings at nothing in the air. He settles when he registers that she’s there on the bed next to him, laughing through the pain. “Felix used my neck as a launching pad. I think you scared him.”

Brad flops back onto the bed with a groan. He rubs his eyes then turns to take her in; finally, his blue eyes seem more alert and focused. He studies her for a moment then frowns, propping himself up on his elbow to peer down at her. “Jesus Christmas, Claire, you scared the crap outta me.”

Claire pouts as she rubs her neck. “He’s not used to a big, sleeping man taking up all the space.”

Batting her hand away with a laugh, Brad inspects the damage to her neck. Claire lays still and tries not to think about how natural this all feels. Waking up with Brad. Brad in her bed. Under her covers. His calloused finger delicately tracing the skin of her neck. She shivers.

“That hurt?” Brad’s voice is low now, rough, and she goes very, very still. 

“No…”

“Okay, o-kay, good..” he traces over her skin again. Their eyes meet. Claire can feel the blood run hot in her veins; her heart pounds hard. She wonders if he can feel her pulse as he follows the line of her neck. “No blood shed. Some pretty gnarly scratches though. Damn cat.”

Claire blinks up at Brad. His eyes are dark now, a deep ocean blue, and there’s that lightning bolt of awareness again. “Brad…”

There isn’t anything she wants to say. Nothing she could say now. Not unless she wants it all to change.  _ Kiss me, kiss me _ , is what she thinks.  _ Stay, stay, stay _ , pounds her heart. But she is terrified of changing it all. Even with Brad looking at her like this, making her feel treasured and safe and _ loved _ . 

His whole palm ghosts across her neck and she shivers again, full-bodied this time, and his gaze flicks to her lips; she can’t help that her neck arches open in response. When he gently brushes back the hair from her face, her eyes flutter closed.  _ This, more of this… _ She is surrounded by him, overwhelmed by him, and she wants  _ this _ and more,  _ so much more _ . 

“Claire, I really wanna—” his voice is rough, uncertain. 

God, she hates when he’s careful with her. She never has patience for that.

“Yes, oh my god,  _ yes _ ,” she breathes out and surges up at him. They meet somewhere in the middle, lips soft and tentative. She threads her hand through his unruly hair and pulls him closer to her. Claire wants more. She falls back onto her pillow, bringing him down with her. He’s over her suddenly, kissing her in a way that is definitely, blessedly not careful. 

He kisses his way down her neck, finding a spot just behind her ear that makes her moan in a most embarrassing, desperate way. He chuckles into her neck and nips again with his teeth, achieving the same effect. 

Her own hands claw to find the edge of his t-shirt, seeking out the heated skin underneath. She bunches up the fabric in one greedy hand; traces up the muscles of his back with the other. He shudders and groans into her at the contact, settling a little more of his weight on her, and she’s lost in the fog of him.

“Shit, Claire,  _ babe _ .” 

Her grin is smug at the way he whines the endearment then not so smug as he finally palms her breast with his expert hands. She mumbles his name into the top of his cheek in encouragement; his technique is sound. She buries her face in his neck and inhales deeply, giddy and blissed out already. His smell combined with the taste of his skin blooms across her tongue, addictive and intense, waking something inside of her. Her skin buzzes with want, with  _ need _ — his hands all over her, big and strong and familiar, and his smell all around her, and all his little sounds, so new and exciting, as he responds to her touch. It's _so much_.

Claire hooks a leg around the back of his thigh and uses her ankle to draw him closer still. She sucks at his earlobe, his chin, then has to find his mouth because she already misses the taste of his tongue. As she pulls away to breathe, she gasps out, “this… this… is what you want right?” She isn’t quite sure how to ask. Or what he’ll say. But she needs to know. She needs him to stay.

“You’re kidding, right?” His laugh is a little awkward, a flustered and thrown Brad she rarely sees. He pulls his hand out from under her shirt and rolls onto his side, never breaking eye contact. She runs a hand down his arm. He’s a bit breathless and it melts whatever hesitation she still feels. “Fuck, Claire, this is all I’ve wanted for a long damn time.”

“Really?” 

Blue eyes sparkle in the morning light. Something delicious and full fills Claire’s chest. “Uh yeah, Claire. I kinda thought you knew that. Ms. Ivy League over here wasn’t quite picking up on my signals.”

Laughing, Claire reaches up to run her fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes against her touch. “What signals? I had no idea.”

“Seriously? You think I fix garbage cans for just anybody? Let any ol’ coworker use me as a pillow? I sure as hell wouldn’t voluntarily quarantine myself with Baraghani.” Brad laughs and settles a hand on her stomach, tapping out an absent beat on her skin as he talks. “I’m gonna need to see proof of this so-called Harvard degree, Half-Sour.” His drum solo turns into a deliberate tickle. 

Claire laughs and swats his hand away. “Brad!” But then his touch turns serious; he traces the curve of her jaw with one careful finger.

“Ain’t no one else I want to be with at the end of the world, Claire.” 

She loses her breath with the intensity of it, can’t possibly think of how to respond. She feels her eyes water. She’s overwhelmed by not only her feelings for him, but the reality of their situation and the complete uncertainty of what comes next. “Brad, I—

“Shhh,” he murmurs and brushes her hair back from her forehead. He nuzzles his nose into her cheek before meeting her eyes with a soft smile. “We can overthink it later all you want, okay?”

She curls her hands into his shirt and begins to yank it up, nodding in agreement. “Yes,” she exhales. “Later.”

Then he kisses her with promise and she melts into him. They have nothing but time, after all. 

* * *

For breakfast Claire toasts up some sourdough with butter and leftover ravioli filling as Brad fries some eggs and bacon. They move together seamlessly in the kitchen as usual though there are certainly more intentional touches than ever before. Whenever they tumble into each other’s spaces as they maneuver the small workspace, Brad presses a kiss to her skin— her neck, her forehead, her elbow. As he chops up some greens to sauté, she wraps her arms around him from behind and leans against his big body just breathing him in, taking in the moment. Then they eat hearty and laugh and sing along to a classic rock playlist after they decide NPR is too stressful. 

Claire’s letting the last pan soak in the sink for a minute when she finds Brad in the living room, staring out the window with Felix in his arms. She leans against the doorway and watches.

“That’s it lil’ buddy,” he says gently to her small cat (though, with Brad, it’s never quite  _ softly _ .) Felix seems more interested in the pigeons perched on the roof across the way but Brad continues on. “No need to be afraid of ol’ Brad Leone. I’ll hook you up with the good catnip, lots of gourmet tuna and shit. Yup. I promise. Just gotta know I’m planning on spending a lot more time with your mom. You’re gonna have to get used to it, bub. Keep those claws to yourself. Dad Brad is here to stay.”

Claire smiles to herself and goes to finish the dishes. Well, even if Felix finds an issue with that, Claire definitely doesn’t.

* * *

The next few days pass in a haze of passionate sex and flirty cooking and drowsy cuddles and so much smiling Claire’s cheeks are sore (along with other body parts, if she’s being honest.) 

Brad stays. While she starts sorting through her research cookbooks, deciding what will stay and what will go, Brad takes over a shelf on her bookshelf for his fermentation station...and some of the floor below and still there’s a box leftover. As Claire reads and sorts, Brad chatters to a curious Felix about his projects; somehow the cat suffices as a cameraman and is maybe more interested. Brad cycles through his limited supply of clothes and a few ill-fitting leftovers from boyfriends past; when he starts parading around the apartment in her (thankfully oversized for her) robe that is barely decent on him, she can’t resist snapping a secret photo. In the evenings, they eat whatever concoction they can pull together in the kitchen and sip wine and scroll through the news. The world is falling apart outside the four walls of her apartment and she can hardly put into words the anxiety she feels about it. But then she has Brad there, stroking her hair and cracking dumb jokes and making her put down her phone for an impromptu dance party. She’s grateful all over again that he’s here, this one person who can truly keep her sane. Their eyes will meet or there will be a lingering touch and then they fall into one another. Claire will sigh and Brad’s touch becomes everything. In those moments, everything feels hopeful and safe and true. She can’t get enough. 

Sunday night, the night before they will have to reconnect with the world through video in her home and faces on her screen, Claire wakes up in the middle of the night to a brick of anxiety pressing itself into her chest. She knows that sleep is futile. She glares at Brad’s sleeping form in envy; he’s snoring softly, arms and legs at all different angles, his face calm in slumber. Felix has even found his new favorite sleep spot: curled up in whatever triangle of space Brad leaves available. He’s curled into a ball in the crook of Brad’s elbow now and doesn’t flinch when Claire leaves the bed.

Like most nights when she can’t sleep, she heads to the kitchen and starts pulling familiar ingredients from the cabinets: flour, sugar, yeast, salt. She thinks maybe she’ll make some cinnamon rolls for morning. Maybe with something savory on the side for Brad. She gets to work.

As she kneads the dough, she lets her mind wander. She remembers she was dreaming of her parents before she woke; she realizes she hasn’t talked to them or her sisters with more than a few texts since Brad arrived. She hit ignore on multiple FaceTime calls from her friends as well, texting them she was in the middle of baking and would call them back; she distinctly remembers one of those lies covered having Brad’s mouth between her legs. She feels guilty about that. Having all this goodness in the midst of a global meltdown. She smacks the dough on her countertop. 

“Easy there, Claire,” Brad’s voice is rough as he lays a lazy kiss on the back of her neck. “Gonna wake the sleeping beast.”

She turns to give him a look only to find him grinning at her sheepishly, a dozing Felix curled into his chest. She snorts. “Brad.”

“Thought I meant me, huh, Saffitz?” He gives her a gentle smack on the ass and laughs when she yelps. 

“You’re impossible,” she rolls her eyes and gives the dough another flip. Still, she tilts her head up when he leans down to kiss her. He gives her a lusty look. 

“Yeah, that’s why you keep me around,” he says, teasing. She just laughs. “Whatcha making there, Claire?”

It sounds so much like something he’d say in the test kitchen, camera lingering, that she draws a sharp breath. But Brad catches it and gives her a soothing rub to her back. “Breakfast. It’s a surprise.”

“It’s a little early for breakfast, honey.” Brad grabs her wrist and, finding a fleck of wet dough there, swipes his tongue across her skin. “Mmm. That’s the stuff, babe. Cinnamon rolls?”

Claire’s body responds to his touch, heat washing through her, and she wonders for how long it’ll feel this  _ urgent  _ between them _ .  _ “It’s a  _ surprise _ !” She yanks her hand back and flicks a bit of flour at him for emphasis. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Tell me what’s on that big brain of yours, Claire. The tiny beast and the big beast are all ears.” Brad pulls up her step stool just behind her work station and sits down. Claire spares them an amused look and just shakes her head.

She continues to knead the dough as she speaks; lets the repetitive task keep her focus and her words flow freely. Brad deserves that much. “Just realized that while we’ve been having such an amazing weekend here, and really it’s been wonderful, and I’m so happy and content. But the reality is people are dying out there. And I’m scared. I have been so wrapped up in this, in us, that I’ve neglected my family and friends.” She stops as her eyes tear up. 

“Aw, shit, Claire.” Brad, being Brad, gives her a moment to collect herself. Gives her the space she needs. But his gaze is warm and strong and she knows he just gets it. “We don’t have to feel guilty for being happy during the fuckin’ apocalypse. It’s like… it’s like when there's a flower that grows up from a crack in the concrete, ya know? Good shit can still happen. We need the good shit to not go totally bonkers.”

Claire keeps her grin to herself at his words. She gathers up the dough on her counter and places it carefully in a prepared bowl, sets it aside to rise. She dusts her hands on her apron. “You may have a point there, Leone.” She turns to face him, leaning back on the counter. He looks ridiculous. His hair is a mess (and she feels like after this weekend it’s going to be hard to see him hiding it under his hats), Felix is a small, dark lump on his chest, and his impossibly long legs are folded awkwardly to keep him sitting on the step stool. She wonders how she got so lucky.

“Sometimes, just sometimes, I get it right,” he teases. He places Felix on the ground, ignoring his mewl of protest. With a stretch and a yawn, the cat skitters off into the dark of the apartment. Brad stands up and reaches for her, pulling her into a strong hug. She melts against him. “I love ya, Half-Sour. I just need you to know that. I’m here as long as you want me.”

They’ve said it before, more so in fevered gasps, at the peak of passion. But hearing Brad say how he feels about her so casually, so honestly, in the florescent light of her kitchen in the middle of night, makes it real. She hopes he doesn't mind that her tears dampen his t-shirt.

“I love you, Brad,” she says. He squeezes her tight. 

“C’mon, let’s get back to bed. There’s no way pre-dawn cinnamon rolls are a good thing, Claire. We gotta find you another way to relax…”

She lets him lead her back to the bedroom, not bothering to complain about attending to the rising dough. She feels her body grow heavy with the need for rest and wants nothing more than to curl up beside him, warm and safe, not even minding if she never falls back asleep. Whatever comes next, she knows they can face it together, as a team. Because that’s just how they work best.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Let me know your thoughts! This was my first attempt at these characters and it was kind of an awkward place for me. Thanks for reading! Take care, everyone!


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